


Hardly Awake

by Foxtrots



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7521004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxtrots/pseuds/Foxtrots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John attends Sherlock's funeral. Post-Reichenbach, pre-series three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hardly Awake

“Thanks for the ride.” 

“Sure.” 

John adjusted himself in the passenger seat, leaning his cane against the door. It was hard to get comfortable with his leg throbbing the way it did. As the car went off, he rested his hand on his leg, though that didn't do anything to help the pain. For brief moments, when he smiled or laughed, or forgot about his troubles, the pain would leave, only to return worse than before, that familiar throb-throb echoing through his leg. 

And today his leg hurt more than ever. 

John grunted as he again tried to get comfortable in his seat. Left leg over right, right over left, leaning forward, leaning back, none of it helped. 

The silence didn't help either. Only the sound of John squirming in his seat and the engine of the car could he heard. John stared at the radio, wondering if he should turn it on to fill the silence. Any station would do: oldies, rock, pop, new age. Just as long as it ended this terrible silence. 

“So how've you been doing?” Perhaps the silence was better. 

“Fine. Yeah. Fine,” John replied, staring out of the window, watching the buildings go by in a blur. “And you? How are you dealing with things?” 

“Great. Really great.” Lestrade sounded just as honest as John did. It was clear both of them were hurting, but neither wanted to address that. Maybe they were both too proud to admit such a thing, or maybe they didn't want to remind the other of what just happened. Though they'd both have to face that eventually. 

When the car pulled into the lot, John's heart sank. They were there. They had arrived. Lestrade tried to give John an encouraging smile as he gave him a solid pat on the back. “We're here,” he said, undoing his seatbelt and stepping outside. John waited a bit longer in the car. The car was safe. The car protected him from what he was about to face. But like the brave soldier he once was, he took in a deep breath and got out of the car. The headlights blinked as Lestrade locked the doors. 

“Forgot my cane,” John said as the pain in his leg intensified. 

It hurt to walk. Even with the help from the cane. Lestrade had offered to help John walk, to give him some support but John refused. Instead he proudly hobbled down the stone path to the church. The church. John had to scoff at that. Sherlock never would have wanted to have a traditional funeral in a church, with flowers and candles, and people lightly weeping as others made speeches. Then again, he and Sherlock had never talked about such things. They certainly lived dangerous lives, but there was always that assumption they'd make it back to the flat in one piece. 

Lestrade held the church door open and John was greeted with the smell of old carpet, wooden pews, and incense. An organ droned as guests who had already arrived spoke in hushed whispers. John clenched his cane tighter than before as he stiffly made his way down the aisle to the alter. 

And right there on display was the wooden casket. Closed, with a large bouquet of flowers perched on top. Beside the casket was an easel displaying a black-and-white picture of Sherlock, his piercing eyes looking straight through John. John stared back, as if waiting for the picture to blink, but it never did. Of course it never did, pictures couldn't move. 

John took a seat on the pew closest to the casket, balancing his cane against the seat. John felt as though he deserved that spot at the front. As he sat, he stared at the casket, waiting for Sherlock to pop out of it. Because this wasn't real. None of this was real. It was all some terrible dream that John couldn't wake himself from it no matter hard he tried. But he'd wake up in the flat with Sherlock pacing about the living room, working on their most recent case. The kitchen would be a mess of experiments and the fridge would be full of heads. And Mrs Hudson would bring them tea and tidy up the place, all the while reminding them she was only the landlady, not their housekeeper. And then Sherlock would solve the case and look over to John and smile that smile he always did. That proud-of-himself-for-solving-the-case smile, but it also had some warmth to it, some happiness maybe. John always liked to think he made Sherlock happy. Sherlock certainly made him happy. 

“How are you holding up?” Lestrade asked as he sat beside John. 

John nodded as his reply. 

“Big turnout,” he went on, looking at the pews behind them. There were important people there: Molly, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and to John's surprise, Anderson sat in the back. But there were people John didn't know or barely remembered. People who Sherlock helped in the past. People Sherlock helped even before he had met John. 

“Yeah.” 

“I know this must be hard for you,” Lestrade said, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees. “I know how important Sherlock was to you. And you were important to him, don't you forget that. I know he was never all that good at showing how he felt about things, but you meant the world to him.” 

“Yeah.” 

The question remained unasked: where you and Sherlock lovers? Boyfriends? More than friends? Had a little something going on? But now wasn't the time to for Lestrade to satisfy his own curiosity about the nature of their relationship, although he had his suspicions. Everyone did. What didn't need to be said was the love that both men had between them. Maybe they didn't sleep together or kiss when no one was looking, but Lestrade knew – everyone knew – Sherlock loved John and John loved Sherlock, however love was defined. One needed the other and now that one was gone, when the other needed him the most. 

John sniffed. After promising himself he wouldn't get emotional, his emotions were getting the best at him. John tried to discretely wipe a tear away with the back of his sleeve. 

Lestrade placed a hand on John's shoulder. “Hey, you'll be alright.”


End file.
